


the longest shadows ever cast

by calciseptine



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Pre-Science Fair, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't hafta wait up for me," Stan says, and rises unsteadily to his feet so he can focus on something more real than the dream of his brother several feet away. "I can take care of myself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the longest shadows ever cast

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written to _Summer Skin_ by Death Cab for Cutie.

Ford is asleep when Stan creeps into their bedroom, unbalanced by several cans of cheap beer and the late hour. He stumbles as he tries to toe out of his worn chucks, curses under his breath when he cannot, and nearly falls when he bends over to undo the laces.

"Goddamnit," Stan hisses. His words are swallowed by the encompassing night. "Fuck these knots, fuck these shoes, fuck this—"

His clumsy fingers eventually loosen the shoelaces enough for him to wiggle the high tops and his hole-riddled socks from his heat-swollen feet. He sighs in relief; his heels are tender from standing around a fire all night, from jostling and being jostled by his rowdy drinking buddies. He rubs the callused skin with the pad of his thumb to alleviate some of the soreness, to coax blood back into the area. The pressure helps less than he wishes it would.

"Stanley?"

Stan looks up at the slurred inquiry, and meets Ford's sleep darkened gaze. His brother's hair is a mess against his forehead and his mouth looks soft, slack and parted. A rumpled paperback and a small flashlight are tangled in the sheets against his side. It is a familiar sight.

"Sorry," Stan murmurs truthfully as Ford sits up and stares steadily at Stan from beneath the long, inky curtain of his eyelashes. His glasses are folded neatly on his bedside table but Stan knows he can see well enough without them. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay," Ford mumbles, then stifles a small yawn with the width of his palm. "I was waiting for you. I must have nodded off."

They both glance at the clock. Witching hour has just begun, which may explain the thickness of the air and the enchanting fall of shadows against Ford's skin. Stan wants to reach out and touch Ford, wants to see if he can steal some magic from his flesh and keep it locked inside himself forever.

"You don't hafta wait up for me," Stan says instead, rises unsteadily so he can focus on something more real than the dream of his brother several feet away. "I can take care of myself."

Ford is silent as Stan goes to his dresser and rummages for a clean t-shirt to sleep in. The one he wore down to the beach is damp with sweat between his shoulder blades and clings uncomfortably to his skin. He should take a shower before he climbs into bed, but he dismisses the thought. He does not want to wake either of his parents and risk their wrath—especially not when his mother is heavily pregnant—so he simply sheds his shirt, and—

"Leave it," says Ford.

The muscles of Stan's back freeze and his fingers tighten in the cotton fabric as Ford's quiet command seeps down, and down, and down into his porous bones.

"I'm kinda gross," Stan replies, momentarily unsure. He tries to swallow but his mouth is dry, and his tongue sticks to the tacky roof of his hard palate. He isn't as drunk as he had been, earlier, yet he is buzzed enough to second guess the steel in Ford's tone. "Someone spilled a beer on me, and there was a fire pit, and—"

"I do not care," Ford states, his voice firm and unwavering. "Do you?"

" _No_ ," Stan exclaims much more loudly than he intends. He clears his throat and lowers his voice before continuing. "No, I—I don't care. I just—I just need—"

"I know," Ford gently interrupts. "It's okay, Stanley. I know."

The solid undercurrent in Ford's tone is unmistakeable, and Stan is pinned by the heavy and immobilizing weight of Ford's words. The sensation should discomfort Stan—he has always hated being stilled, or silenced—but this weight reassures. It soothes the frayed ends of his electric nerves and lets him breathe deep and easy.

Now, Stan is sure.

"Take off your jeans," Ford commands as Stan's white-knuckled grip slackens, as the dirty shirt he clung to in his uncertainty falls to the worn carpet. Ford's voice, which had been rough with sleep, becomes even more gravelly. "Then take off your underwear."

Without protest—without thought—Stan's hands are at the placket of his jeans, undoing the top button and unzipping the fly. He pulls his pants over his narrow hips and flat ass, his lean thighs and hairy calves. His threadbare underwear does little to conceal his growing half-chub—but the briefs are gone moments after his jeans, and then there is nothing between his nakedness and his brother's half-lidded gaze.

"Did you lock the door?" Ford murmurs.

"Yeah," Stan says. "Yeah, it's locked."

"Mmm," Ford hums, his approval low and clear. Stan's stomach swoops at the sound. "Come stand by the bed."

It is a small miracle that Stan does not stumble in his haste to comply. It is an even greater miracle that his knees do not give out when Ford lifts one big hand and notches his thumb against the crest of Stan's hip, his other five fingers cupping Stan's side.

"Good boy," Ford tells him.

Stan is once more unbalanced as Ford looks his fill. It had embarrassed him, the first time. Ford has always been analytical, and his eyes could not miss the undesirable truths about Stan's body: the acne on his jaw, the lingering softness of his torso, the silvered stretch marks on his belly. The urge to fidget—to hide—had crawled underneath Stan's skin in the worst way while doubt rose like bile in the back of his throat. It had been stupid for him to believe that Ford would find him attractive, that he would—

Then Ford had made a soft noise that was not unlike the wounded exhale of being punched.

"How?" Ford whispered, shakingly and brokenly, as he reached for Stan. "How are you so perfect?"

Stan can see the reverence in Ford now that he knows where to look. He can see the awe in the angle of Ford's mouth; the wonder in the slope of Ford's brow; and marvelment in the slow slide of Ford's gaze. Such scrutinization should not turn Stan on, but being the sole object of Ford's intense attention is heady. Between school, homework, and his obsession with his science fair project, Ford rarely has any time to spare Stan. It is only in stolen moments like these can Ford give Stan what Stan wants, and needs.

"You're already leaking," Ford observes once his stare has fallen low enough, cocking his head to the side as he takes in the pre-come that beads on Stan's slit. His gaze is riveted as he says, "You're beautiful when you're wet."

Ford's words make Stan whine. Ford follows his bold statement with the broad of his tongue against Stan's cockhead, the motion slick and deliberate.

" _Fu—uck,_ " Stan whimpers. His hips jerk unconsciously forward and Ford's grip tightens. "Christ, Sixer, are you tryin' to kill me?"

"No," Ford answers. "Not yet."

Stan should not be able to make out details in the darkness of their childhood bedroom. He should not be able to focus past the blurriness his intoxication casts, nor should he be able to see the predatory gleam in Ford's shadowed eyes. Yet Stan is helpless against the intimate quality the night casts. It is too easy to give into the desire to drink in every nuance he can while his brother does the same.

"Lie down with me," Ford says, his thumb slipping lower and rubbing against the grain of Stan's pubic hair. "I want to—"

" _Yes,_ " Stan interrupts, overcome. "Yes, I want—"

The paperback and the flashlight tumble to the carpet, upset by the eager way the sheets are pulled back. Ford twists to accommodate Stan's bulk, pressing his back against the wall and propping himself up on his elbow. The narrow bed demands that Stan lie on his side as well, so he faces Ford and drops his head to Ford's pillow. The clean scent of soap is a crisp veneer for the adolescent musk buried in the fibers; the combination is so familiar that Stan turns his head and inhales deeply.

"I love when you come back inebriated," Ford whispers as Stan breathes. Ford rests the heel of his hand against Stan's pulse, fingers falling comfortably into the short hairs on the nape of Stan's neck as he gives Stan time to sink. "You're always so honest. So open. So… easy."

"M'always easy for you," Stan slurs.

The corners of Ford's mouth twitch upwards, affectionate and mirthful.

"For me," he agrees.

Ford leans down and kisses Stan. His mouth is warm and plush, and Stan pushes back against him, tilts his head so Ford will lick the seam of his mouth and press inside. Stan accepts him greedily and greets Ford's sleep heavy tongue with his own. A moan escapes Stan at the initial toe-curling contact. Ford moans as well, and proceeds to kiss him more and more deeply.

"So good," Ford purrs during a rare moment when they split apart to gasp for air. Ford's stubble scrapes against Stan's sensitive mouth and Stan's entire being tingles. "Why do you always taste so good?"

There is no way Stan tastes as good as Ford claims after several pilsners and a couple cigarettes, but Stan cannot doubt Ford's honesty when Ford captures Stan's bottom lip with his teeth. The bite stings. Ford soothes the hurt immediately with a tender lick.

They kiss for a long time and Stan becomes dizzy with it. He has always liked kissing—likes the heat, likes the wet, likes the filthy slide of mouths and tongues and teeth—but he loves to kiss Ford, who is as single-minded in giving pleasure as he is in any other aspect of his life. He is no longer the fumbling teenager whose braces cut Stan's lip the first time they kissed; now, Ford's kisses are _devastating_ , honed by practice and tailored to Stan's specific wants. Stan would be more amused by the dramatic difference if he did not directly benefit from Ford's profound passion.

"More," Stan demands when Ford moves from Stan's mouth to his jaw, to the delicate shell of his ear. Stan's limbs feel light, as though he might drift from the bed if not for the steady pressure of Ford's hand in his hair and the anchor of Ford's mouth. "Goddamnit, Sixer, I need—"

Ford slips his still-clothed thigh into the space between Stan's naked legs. His knee pushes against the full swell of Stan's balls and teases the underside of Stan's dick. It isn't enough—it is too much.

"I know," Ford says. "I always know."

Ford allows Stan to rut against him several times—the pressure a light, unsatisfying tease—before he pulls away. Stan whines as the friction disappears.

"It's okay." Ford moves his hand down Stan's throat, over his round shoulder, and along the long line of his spine. His fingertips dip into the dimples of Stan's lower back and skim the curve of Stan's ass. "I want to touch you too." Ford squeezes Stan's thigh, where the fullness of his rear meets his thigh. "But first, you need to undress me."

Divesting Ford of his pajamas takes time. Stan is still lightly drunk, and the plastic buttons on Ford's striped nightshirt are a challenge for his clumsy fingers. If it were not for Ford's explicit command—and for the reward of Ford's sleep warm skin—Stan would have given up after the first two. Combined with Stan's desire to linger, to kiss and bite and lick every inch of Ford's skin, the simple task of stripping Ford naked becomes a process.

"Stanley," Ford groans breathlessly as Stan dips his tongue into the shallow well of Ford's belly button. His stomach is hairy but not as heavily furred as Stan's. The small differences in their bodies have always fascinated Stan, and he is helpless against the desire to touch Ford as those traits appear, to give them due justice as they are revealed. " _Stanley—_ "

Stan traces the line of Ford's abdominal hair down to the elastic waistband of his pants. Ford's trapped cock bumps against Stan's cheek and Ford's hands reach down to tangle in Stan's hair.

"Goddamnit," Ford curses in frustration as he rocks against Stan's face. "Must you be so difficult? I said undress me."

Ford holds Stan in place while Stan removes Ford's bottoms and underwear, pushing them as far down Ford's legs as he can. The material bunches around Ford's ankles; Ford kicks the offending clothes and the sheets to the foot of the bed, his dick slapping Stan's cheek. Stan's eyes flutter shut. He is so wantonly ready for Ford to angle his chin and push into his mouth that he licks his lips and slackens his jaw.

"You want to suck me?" Ford asks. He pulls Stan closer to his groin and rubs Stan's face against the base of cock.

"Yeah," Stan answers, his mouth moving against Ford's thatch of curly pubic hair. The hairs scratch almost unpleasantly against Stan's sensitive mouth. "Yeah, I wanna—I wanna taste you—I wanna feel you—I wanna—"

"Too bad," Ford declares. "I have something else in mind."

Ford pulls Stan's face away from his dick and guides Stan back up the bed. Stan feels a brief pinch of disappoint—he loves when Ford lets go enough to fuck his mouth and throat raw—but it disappears as they settle, on their sides and gently bowed toward each other. Their new position gives Stan the infrequent opportunity to look at the exposed length of Ford's body; it is not the first time Stan has seen Ford naked yet, somehow, the sight of him still manages to be a revelation. Stretched out and languid, his brother is so devastatingly lovely—miles of milky skin, faded freckles, and dark hair—that Stan is oblivious to all else.

"Christ, Sixer," Stan breathes into the unbearable space between them. Stan's hands shake with the indecision of where to touch Ford first. "How did I get so lucky?"

"Well," Ford replies, the corner of his mouth quirking upward crookedly. "The odds were in your favor."

Ford removes one of his hands from the mess of Stan's hair and lets his fingertips caress a path down the column of Stan's throat. Feather light, it meanders over the roundness of Stan's broad shoulder and the thickness of his bicep before stopping, contemplative, against the thin skin of Stan's inner wrist. He presses down just hard enough to feel the thunder of Stan's pulse. Briefly, Stan wonders if their heartbeats match, like so many things about them match, or if they are dissimilar, as many things about them are.

The moment passes. Ford slips down further and fits his palm around the back of Stan's palm; he then guides Stan's touch up the length of his body. They begin at the sharp angle of Ford's hip and slide into the leanness of Ford's waist, skitter over the ridges of Ford's ribcage and the valley of his collarbones, and end at the obscene pinkness of his mouth.

"I need you wet," Ford tells him as he nips at the rough pad of Stan's thumb, as he rubs Stan's middle and pointer finger against his puffy bottom lip. He then releases Stan's hand to press three of his own fingers to Stan's mouth. "I need to be wet, too."

Sucking on Ford's fingers at the same time Ford sucks on his is an assault upon Stan's senses and focus. One moment his attention is captivated by the salty fullness on the hill of his tongue. The next, Stan is enthralled by the wet, undulating pressure against of Ford's tongue against the pads of his fingers, the pressure sending sparks down Stan's spine. It is made more exquisite as their gravity pulls their bodies closer; their hairy legs twine together and their erections bump against each other's bellies, one firm and slightly convex, the other soft and vaguely concave.

On and on it goes. Stan works Ford's fingers until Ford's hand—and his own chin—are a slavering mess. His jaw hurts when Ford finally pulls away, but it the ache is well worth the satisfied smile Ford bestows him.

"Good boy," Ford says, pressing a congratulatory kiss to the blunt line of Stan's jaw. Stan wriggles happily beneath the praise. "You did exactly what I wanted."

Ford augments his statement by lifting his left leg, slinging it over Stan's plush hip, and fitting their lower bodies together. He rolls his pelvis; their erections drag heavily against one another.

"Sixer," Stan whines as he twitches helplessly against his twin. "Sixer, _please_."

"Shh," Ford soothes, shushing Stan with another kiss. "I told you I had a plan, didn't I?"

Ford's plan is less of a plan and more of a position, and it takes him a few seconds to rearrange their limbs to his liking. When he is finished, one of his hands is anchored in the short, dirty, ash-scented mess of Stan's hair; his second, saliva-drenched hand is stretched around their fat dicks; and Stan's hands struggle to hold all of Ford's round ass, the tips of his wet fingers brushing the taut skin of Ford's taint and the sweet softness of his entrance.

"Yeah," Ford murmurs as he squeezes their cocks. His palms are broad—broader even than Stan's enormous palms, to accommodate his extra finger—yet he still cannot fully wrap his hand around the both of them. "Yeah, Stan, you feel—"

Ford slides his grip up and down their shafts experimentally. Even with the wetness of spit and the steady pulse of pre-come—Stan leaks an embarrassing amount of seminal fluid—the friction between them is nearly too much. Fleetingly, Stan thinks of the lube they keep in the small lockbox on the Stan-o-War. While neither of them dare to bring it home for fear of it being discovered, they both love how slick and easy and messy it is, and—

Ford thumbs Stan's cockhead, and Stan's train of thought derails. His eyes flutter shut. He presses his face against Ford's throat, where the tendons and his clavicles meet to form a shallow hollow, and breathes.

"So good," Stan slurs. His brain buzzes from the mix of mellowing alcohol and the rush of sex-induced endorphins. "So good, Sixer."

"Always good," Ford affirms gently. "You—you're good to me—good for me—my good, good boy."

It is difficult for Stan not to thrust mindlessly into the pressure of Ford's hand. He has always liked it hard and fast; Ford, comparatively, has always preferred a firm yet teasing build. It had driven Stan insane, in those long nights long ago when he had listened to Ford languidly jack it in the bunk above him, and it drives Stan insane now, when Ford dictates their pace. Their time together becomes a test of Stan's willpower. It isn't that Stan does not enjoy the slow, decadent slide of Ford's warm hand over his dick, it's just—

"Ungh," Stan grunts, remembering when Ford licked his cockhead earlier, when Ford said, mischievously, that he was not trying to kill Stan, not yet. "You— _ahh_ —you're trying to kill me now, aren't you?"

Ford's laughter is more sensation than sound, a vibration that rumbles in his chest more than it does in the air. "Are you complaining?" Ford asks. Then, with no small amount of smugness, "I can stop, if you want."

"What I want," Stan complains ineffectively, breathlessly, "is for you to hurry it the fuck up."

Ford laughs again. It is answer enough. Ford has always been the more stubborn twin and there is little anyone—even Stan—could say or do to change his mind once it had been set. Stan finds this particular facet of his brother's personality both irritating and endearing; it is an odd combination of emotions to experience, especially while having sex.

"You're a goddamn asshole," Stan declares.

"Mmm," Ford hums noncommittally before he slows his hand. The pace is glacier but the pressure remains steadily firm. Stan groans at Ford's contrariness, then swipes his spit-slick fingers roughly over Ford's entrance. Ford exhales haltingly and the tight ring of muscle flutters beneath Stan's grounding touch. Ford gasps an obscenity.

"Yeah," murmurs Stan as Ford's stroke slides upwards at a much more tolerable speed. "Like that."

Their actions form an inevitable rhythm, as steady and as reliable as the push of waves onto the beach and the pull of the undertow back into the ocean: Ford's pace will slow down into an unbearable tease, Stan will press his fingers against Ford's blushing hole, and Ford will forget himself long enough to increase his speed. On and on it goes, until Stan teeters on the edge of orgasm for so long that he can feel the pressure of release built up in the hot pit of his belly, the tensing muscles of his thighs and stomach, and in the deep roots of his teeth.

"C-close," Stan stutters into the shared space between them. "So close, Sixer—are you—?"

Ford moans a muffled affirmative, a short noise that rises from the top of his throat and breaks against the roof of his mouth. He is always inarticulate as he approaches the brink; he is too singularly focused on the fit and slide of their bodies that he is unable to do more than respond. Though Stan has seen Ford like this more times than he can remember, he knows that he will never cease to be amazed by how completely Ford unravels.

" _Fuck,_ " Stan hisses as he ducks his head and presses his open mouth to Ford's throat. "Fuck, Sixer, I—"

Stan's persistent fingers push inside Ford's squirming body. His fingers do not sink in deeply enough to touch Ford's sensitive prostate, but two poorly lubricated fingers to the first knuckle are definitely enough for Ford to feel the burn of a stretch. Another blunt sound crashes against Ford's hard palate. Ford's wide hand jerks around their cocks. The spit from earlier has evaporated completely and Stan's precome is tacky in the curl of Ford's fingers. Ford's grip drags—more roughly than Stan is used to from himself—and it is too much—too much—

"Unng _gh_ —!" Stan grunts as he climaxes. His balls and dick pulse in time with the throb of his heart. "Sixer—!"

Like so many other aspects of their life together, Ford follows Stan wordlessly and without hesitation. His grip tightens painfully around them—Ford can take so much more than Stan can, doesn't choke from overstimulation like Stan does—and Ford turns his face into his pillow to muffle his unmistakable cry. His shoulders curl inward and shake. His ass twitches greedily around Stan's fingers and, obligingly, Stan buries them deep.

Ford cries out a second time, a sweet and dulcet note that cannot be smothered. His hand twists around their still hard dicks and Stan winces at the wave of discomfort that cuts past the haze of his pleasure. It only last for a moment, though, and when it fades he chuckles and slides his indulgent smile against Ford's slack jaw. Their stubble rasps together pleasantly.

"Ngh," Ford vocalizes as Stan pulls back, drops his head to the shared pillow. Their faces are a breath apart. Ford's indigo eyes are nearly as dark as the soft shroud of night folded around them; the slanting glow of the streetlamp that filters through the curtains do little to highlight Ford's normally vibrant irises. "Stan."

"Sixer."

They smile uncontrollably at one another as their heartbeats slow and the heat of their bodies rolls off into the stagnant air of the late summer night. They laugh intermittently, low and intimate, and trade easy kisses. They gaze into the mirrors of each other's eyes and—though one set is brown and the other set is blue—the depth and honesty of emotion in them are identical.

Eventually, the mild physical discomfort of their stabilizing bodies outweighs their mental need to be entwined, and Stan and Ford part. Stan slides his fingers from the clutch of Ford's body and Ford lets go of their softened cocks. Stan then sits up and gets out of bed. His head swims. He has to pause, momentarily, and wonders if his disorientation is from the traces of alcohol left in his bloodstream or the heady remnants of what he has done with Ford. Perhaps it is both.

"Okay?" Ford asks quietly from the bed.

"Yeah," Stan replies. He bends over and picks up Ford's discarded pajamas from the worn carpet. He wipes the striped cotton carefully against his dick and belly. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Good," says Ford.

Stan hands the shirt to his brother and Ford copies Stan's movements. He also cleans the stick from his palm and from the crevices between all six of his thick fingers. Once Ford is clean as he can be—as clean as he cares to be—he tosses the used fabric in the general direction of their hamper. It lands with an almost inaudible thump against the small mountain of dirty clothing. Then Ford sits up, grabs the crumpled sheets from the foot of his bed, and straightens them out.

"Come on," Ford says as he lays back down, his hair a dark and wild mess. He lifts a corner of the old sheet in invitation. "Come to bed."

For the second time that night, Stan is unsure. Ford's bed—like Stan's—is an artifact from their childhood. It is the same narrow mattress that Ford used when he slept on the top bunk. Then puberty had hit, and Ford got too big from the space between his bed and the ceiling; when they were forced to dismantle the bunk and the make-shift fort attached, they simply moved the mattresses into two, low-lying frames tucked against opposite walls.

"Isn't it too small?" Stan mumbles. "I mean, I know we shared as kids, but—I'm not a tiny guy, and—"

"Stan," Ford interrupts. His voice is firm and patient. "I know that the bed's too small. I know that it won't fit us easily. I know that you'll probably kick me a couple times. I know that I'll probably steal the covers. I know that we might not sleep as easily if you went back to your own bed. But I also know that I…"

Ford's teeth scrape against the swell of his bottom lip and his gaze drops down to the hollow space he created for Stan to fill. It is the only uncertainty Ford has shown all night.

"I want to hold you," Ford whispers, his eyes downcast. Then, even more softly, "I was waiting for you."

Stan reaches out and touches the warm skin of his brother's sternum. The muscle beneath the bone beats a strong and steady rhythm that matches the rhythm inside Stan. And it has always matched—and it will always match—because when Ford and Stan traded hearts, Stan locked Ford's away in the stubborn and selfish cage of his ribs, and he will never— _never_ —give it back.

"Yeah," Stan says as his hand slides away. "I know." 


End file.
